


Etched In Pain

by Whookami



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen, Homophobic Slurs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of other characters for now, Steve Harrington-centric, Steve Has Issues, Steve’s issues get worse, Unsafe Sex, Vague concepts of self-harm, unimportant one-off character for plot purposes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23784568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whookami/pseuds/Whookami
Summary: When Steve is in pain he knows he’s feelingsomethingat least. He knows he’sworthsomething, that he can bear their pain on top of his own. But what about when there are no monsters to fight, no danger to throw himself in front of? Steve tries to cope as best as he can, but like so many things in his life, he finds himself just falling short.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

He sits in his room most evenings by himself. Purposeless. It’s not an unfamiliar sensation, but one he’s always found ways of distracting himself from, of brushing off to be dealt with later. It’s getting harder and harder to tell himself he’s still got plenty of time to figure things out. It isn’t made easier by the dull echo of his parents’ voices always inside his head. 

  


They had expectations of him. Everyone had expectations of him. Harringtons didn’t just settle, they weren’t supposed to accept a menial retail job and drag their family’s image through the mud for minimum wage. After every advantage and benefit he’d been given his entire life, all the freedom and independence he’d been allowed, this was how Steve chose to repay them? 

  


It was laughable. They thought he was free? Steve had been shackled to his last name, his family’s legacy, his empty house, for as long as he could remember. Just trying to be _him_ was like being a prisoner. Acting the right way, saying the right things, feeling....feeling something. Steve had never really felt much of anything before Nancy Wheeler had entered his life. Everything had been muffled, just momentary flashes of joy or frustration, constantly overlaid with an aching bitter loneliness. Until he wasn’t lonely anymore. Until he was again, but it hurt even worse because now he knew what it was like to live without it. 

  


The thing was, he didn’t _have_ to be lonely now. He was choosing it. Steve knew that if he called up Robin or Dustin they would come and listen to him, let him get out whatever he needed and try their best to help him through it. 

  


He wouldn’t though. 

  


Since the night he’d faced down a flower-faced monster with a spiked baseball bat Steve had become much more aware of just how bad things were for other people. Seeing the inside of the Byers’ place, Christmas lights strung everywhere and more holes being punched through the dingy painted walls by the second, he’d finally come face to face with Jonathan’s reality. For the first time Steve had seen himself from the outside, seen how he must look to others. 

  


In a small Midwest nowhere town like Hawkins Steve was royalty. He lived in his castle on the edge of town, drove a car worth more than most of their houses, and had a crowd of followers that had laughed and smiled at him just for being in their presence. Sure, he wasn’t as naive now, he had learned the hard way that the admiration only went along with his willingness to throw a good party and be captain of whatever sport was currently in season. It looked so perfect if you could only see the surface, only see what Steve had been willing to show. 

  


He won’t fault others for not bothering to look deeper. He seemed like a pretty surface-level-only type of guy. He’d tried hard to appear that way, he has only himself to blame if it worked too well. 

  


Whenever the frustration wells up too high he reminds himself of everything he has. The list is short, but meaningful. He has a warm house, a car, enough money he doesn’t have to worry about much, and a few close but incredibly important friends. He has a spiked bat and the ability to protect others, to throw himself in harms way and maybe make a difference. He feels his best when choking up on an ash handle, blocking out everything except the controlled rhythm of his swing and whatever nightmare he’s placed himself in front of. 

  


It feels good to take the swing. To let everything out in the service of something bigger than just himself, bigger than just the few people he truly loves, bigger than even just Hawkins. When his blood is high and pumping, and his body is groaning in pain, Steve feels like he’s right where he needs to be, right where the universe always meant for him to land. 

  


But monsters go away, at least for a little while. The time stretches uncomfortably and the nights are endless and Steve realizes he’s never really landed, never managed to find his footing. He’s still in free fall, just waiting for the next moment to pick up his bat and get back to business. He sits and watches the clock. He turns on all the lights. He breathes shakily into his cupped palms and gazes down at his pool with tired wary eyes. He tries to remember how it feels to stand tall in front of a monster when every bone in your body wants to collapse. 

  


He never manages to quite grasp the elusive feeling, the memories shimmering and fading out of reach when he needs them most. He curls up in a ball most nights, hunched in the corner of his room and waiting to watch as the sunlight inches above his windowsill. When finally the light splashes against the far wall it’s safe enough to catch a few hours of sleep, just enough to make it through one more day. Deep inside he knows he can’t keep doing this, knows that he’s running himself into the ground, but he isn’t sure he’s smart enough to come up with a solution. The lights stay on as he fitfully naps, even when the sun is shining. 

  


Over the course of weeks Steve tries to think of a way to get what he needs without just doing something dumb. It wouldn’t exactly shock anyone if he did, but he’s not desperate. He’s not _desperate_. He says it enough that it’s true. 

  


He decides on a tattoo. 

  


It wasn’t something he’d ever considered in the past, just passively going along with his parents own bias against anything that would permanently mar his looks. But he can’t think of anything else that will help, anything else that will remind him. Nothing else that will make him _feel._

  


It’s surprisingly not hard to choose a design, but more challenging to choose the location. The face is right out. There are more than a few things fucked up about Steve these days, but not enough that he’d consider a facial tattoo. The bicep is traditional, but Hargrove wore one on his. The notion makes Steve uncomfortable by association and so he puts the kibosh on that idea as well. 

  


Eventually he settles for his chest, just a little above his heart. A nail-bat in loving detail etched on his pec for all time. He supposes it’ll be a little weird or off-putting to any girls when he takes his shirt off, but it’s not like he’s been lucky in that department lately. Hell, when he wants to be, Steve can be remarkably charming and creative. If it ever comes up he feels pretty confident he can bullshit his way through it. He’s good at being bullshit, after all. 

  


He shaves his chest, because he’s a man, and he’s got the chest hair to prove it. (Sure, there’s not a _lot_ of it, and it’s sort of oddly fluffy, but that’s really beside the point.) He squashes down a slight feeling of regret and gets to work. He’s too hasty, but that’s always been one of his biggest problems. His body is always about five steps ahead of his mind and his heart. Two tiny rivulets of blood begin to dot his skin where the muscle is the thinnest, running together in twin channels that only drip for a second or two, beading and clotting quickly. He jerks his fingers back with a disjointed startle, realizing that he’s been pressing against the cuts, forcing the blood out much more than a nick while shaving should cause. He just tells himself it’s the pre-show to the main event. He’s getting himself psyched up. 

  


Steve was very wrong about that. The reality of stepping into the parlour he’d chosen is causing his stomach to churn violently. The sweat is collecting at the nape of his neck and beneath his arms and it’s almost relieving to pull off his shirt. He’s a little embarrassed about the twin cuts on his obviously shaved torso, but the tattoo artist doesn’t comment, just points his customer to a worn leather chair. He whips out a disposable razor and makes sure that Steve’s own job is good enough. The man doesn’t cut him once. Steve sighs. He’s staring at the ceiling as a little piece of flimsy paper is adhered to his chest and rubbed down. Can the other man feel the way Steve’s heartbeat jackhammers beneath his hand? He hopes not, this is mortifying enough already. 

  


The needle is...bigger than Steve had imagined. It’s not like, Russian sized or anything, but it doesn’t look like it’s meant to do a basically harmless task. If it were, Steve wouldn’t be here. Needles make him clammy and distantly afraid since last July. Without meaning to, he’s inching as far away from the other man as the chair will allow. 

  


”Stay still, kid,” the artist rasps, his voice dusky like he’s just woken from a long hibernation. He’s fiddling with things Steve can’t entirely see, and doesn’t understand. It doesn’t matter. All that’s important is the electric drone when the needle begins, and Steve’s hands clamp like vices on the armrests. 

  


It isn’t a blinding pain, not the sharp jab of a fist to the face. It’s a constant low vibration that’s bleeding him out, turning his ribs to dust. Steve bites down on the inside of his cheek until the thin taste of watery blood is on his tongue and he begins to relax into the sensations. It feels right. It feels wrong. He doesn’t even know what he feels anymore. Steve’s body is confused, so used to the idea that pain means something important, that Steve is doing the _right thing_ , that he can almost feel it as his brain releases the rush of serotonin and dopamine and adrenaline that he’s been seeking. He breathes deep, almost wanting to press up into the needle hammering above his equally hammering heart. He sits still and just tries to relish the feeling, the way the pain soothes him and reminds him that he has purpose. It’s good and for the moment he’s okay with that. 

  


It’s over too fast and Steve can’t help the twinge of disappointment he’s certain also shows in his eyes. The tattooist remains as silent on this matter as any other, if he even notices. He gives Steve a sheet of paper with instructions and a tube that probably contains some kind of lotion or salve? Steve wasn’t paying attention. He was doing his best to commit the sensations he felt to memory, to internalize everything so he can recall it later as needed. 

  


The entire ride home his chest burns whenever he moves his left arm. It’s barely a second of pain, but it sends thrilling little tremors along his spine, and he’s thankful for the reminders. When he gets home he runs straight to his room and jacks off into his left palm, teeth grit hard and a heady mix of pain and pleasure warming him from the inside out. He comes like a virgin, sudden and overwhelming and flooded with the certain knowledge that he will never be the same again. 

  


Days later when most of the pain is gone he’ll sit on the edge of his bed and press curious fingers over the bandages covering his heart. The feeling will be muted and dull, and it won’t really scratch the itch that’s buried itself in Steve’s skull, but it’ll have to do. He doesn’t want this to become a regular thing. He likes the tattoo enough, but he isn’t thrilled about the idea of becoming a living canvass. This’ll be enough, and he’ll be fine. He’ll just look at the fist-sized nail-bat and remember all the pains that have come before. 

  


Smearing lotion over the design with fingers a touch too heavy, a little too forceful, Steve smiles. It’s a neat trick. He got what he needed, and all he did was something that plenty of people, _normal people_ , did every day. He’s not any different from them. Life will go back to normal, he’ll start sleeping properly again, and when things get to be too much....well, he’s got a permanent reminder of everything he’s been through available at a moment’s notice. 

  


Not bothering with a shirt, Steve lays on top of his covers despite the chill still hanging in the air. He’ll have good dreams tonight, like he has the previous two evenings since he got the tattoo. His breathing slows down, evens out, and he falls into sleep gratefully. He’s not even aware that his hand instinctively reaches up and presses itself tight over top his bandages as he begins to dream. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Steve is making some pretty poor choices and is in a really bad headspace during most of this chapter. It contains a portrayal of unsafe sex with a stranger. Steve is definitely not an awesome role model in this.

His head spins dizzily as he’s pressed too forcefully into the restroom stall. The metal’s been painted a violent shade of orange and it’s buzzing inside Steve’s skull, making his nerves feel exposed and sparking uselessly. It’s become an overly familiar feeling, weaving around the curve of his spine and seeping into every movement. It’s disorienting in the small confined space, skin too tight and muscles twitching with an unnamed need. Isn’t this the point though? To leave himself, his too rigid body and too manic thoughts, somewhere far below where he’s floating to right now, a little drunk and a lot horny. 

  


The man behind him is decently larger than Steve himself, his hands huge and covered in work-hardened callouses. They’re scratchy and rough against Steve’s exposed skin. It feels like cuddling up to a cheese grater, but he doesn’t mind. The sensation rushes straight to his groin, each scrape and squeeze practically a stroke along his aching length. He’s pressed up straining against his jeans, nothing between his cock and the harsh metal teeth of the zipper. He wants to rut into it, feel it grinding against the sensitive skin. The harsh breaths panting beside his ear and the eager hands exploring his pale flesh remind him he isn’t alone, and his new friend doesn’t seem like the type to wait patiently while Steve indulges in any number of the peculiar forms of foreplay he’s developed lately. It doesn’t matter much, he’s eager enough that he’s ready to go without that extra bit of work up to the main event. It’s been a particularly bad week, and he needs this now, no preamble required. He’s sure the man in the grease spotted trucker’s hat has no problem with getting straight to the good part. 

  


Hands remarkably steady given how wound up he feels, Steve makes it slightly easier for them both by undoing his own belt and pants. He’s barely finished before the fabric is jerked from his grip, sagging down to pool around his knees. The man growls appreciatively, dark eyes roving Steve’s exposed ass like it’s a side of beef. Perhaps to the other man that’s all it really boils down to. Steve’s just a commodity, and a fairly rare one out here in the sticks. They don’t get to see a lot of young and pretty boys willing to give it up just for the rush the danger and pain elicits in them. Steve wishes he could explain it, if only to himself, but as usual he falls short of being able to find the words. It’s like he only comes alive when his mind is fogged with pain, when he’s doing something careless and reckless to his body. The man at his back definitely meets those requirements, all eager hands and leering eyes. Feeling himself flush as that hungry gaze continues to linger on his exposed backside, he spreads his legs as far as the tight denim still circling his calves will allow, and he waits. 

  


It isn’t long. 

  


The man (Harold? Harvey? It was a H name, he absently thinks. It isn’t important, never is) doesn’t waste time making sure Steve is ready, he just goes for it. Eyes on the prize. Steve would admire it if he could feel anything beyond the stretching searing pain that’s tearing him apart. He’s lucky he took time to prep himself a little first, familiar now with the reality that most other men aren’t going to ask or go to the trouble themselves in a place like this. Instead he tries to recall how to breathe, how to get his chest to slowly relax and allow the air to escape shakily from his swollen lungs. He marvels, not for the first time, at just how much his body can take, how far he can push himself. He’s being split in two, a lancing pain that spears right to the core of his being, where he needs it most. The place where he still remembers how to be himself, if only for a short time. 

  


It can only hurt for so long before he begins to adjust to the sensation, to being so full he can’t think around the hammering of his heart. It’s only moments later that he’s pressing himself back into the other man’s motions, chasing the pain that is fading under the rising bloom of pleasure coiling low in Steve’s abdomen. One firm hand leaves his waist, and he hears a guttural hocking sound. Harvey’s (???) arm snakes back around his body, pulling Steve’s hip close so he can fit his hand between the stall wall the younger man’s body. Barely wet with spit, his fingers close over Steve’s cock and he writhes against the calloused drag of skin on skin. Surprisingly skilled, the man strokes him from base to head, thumb spreading the sticky pearls of precum from his slit. He comes fast, panting and keening hard, short nails scrabbling against the metal wall in a frantic staccato beat. 

  


As soon as the sunburst of pleasure ebbs away Steve stills. It feels like the air has been forced from his body just as surely as the white sticky mess of his cum. He closes his eyes and lets himself be used, relishing the disgust that wells up under his eyelashes and leaks down his face. He shudders when the other man releases into him, turning his face to the corner to hide whatever might be written there clear to see. 

  


”You’re good, kid,” the man compliments (Can that really be a compliment? Does taking a dick well count as a positive trait? A familiar voice inside his head thunders that it just makes him a fag. A disappointment. Unfit to bear his own name for all the embarrassment he’s sure to cause his family). Unable to let them go, the words tumble loudly around the inside of his skull like a ball of tinfoil, staticky and uncomfortable. “Maybe if you’re around again sometime,” the offer is left open, unvoiced but audible in the silence of the tiled bathroom walls. Steve swallows, throat too raw to speak. He nods once, running his hands over his face and pressing hard into the corners of his eyes, damp and aching. Behind him he hears the stall lock slide open, the metal scraping in a way that sets his teeth on edge. He’s hyper aware of every sound, each heavy footstep as Harvey steps out of the cubicle. The taps run briefly, followed by the rasp of cheap paper towels being pulled from the dispenser. Finally a few more trudging steps before the emptiness settles back in with the soft click of the closing door. 

  


Alone again, Steve remembers how to breathe, not sure when he had last inhaled. His lungs are old leather, dried out and hanging dead in his chest. 

  


His hands are shaking as he takes a fistful of toilet paper from the holder and cleans himself up as best as he can. He’s rougher than he needs to be, rubbing his still sensitive cock nearly raw as he treats the tissue more like sandpaper. Finally leaving the tiny space, Steve refrains from looking at himself in the mirror hanging stretched across most of the bathroom wall. He turns the nearest tap on full blast and washes his hands hurriedly before he cups his palms and holds them under the gurgling stream. It’s icy cold and runs out between the small gaps in his fingers, but he scoops up what he can and splashes several handfuls into his face. His eyes still sting and his cheeks feel puffy, and disgusted, he can feel his nose dripping snot intermittently. The water is bracing, bringing him back down from where he’s been floating above himself, stuck somewhere between numb and completely overwhelmed by even the smallest ghost of an emotion. 

  


For the briefest of seconds his eyes flicker up to the mirror on instinct, so used to checking himself over whenever he has the chance. Rigidly maintaining his appearance had been part of the King Steve costume, one he wore so long that he almost forgot it was just a character he created to hide a scared and vulnerable boy so deeply that no one would ever suspect he existed. It had worked a little too well, but at least Steve had been shaken out of that persona before it was too late. Still, looking into the mirror he barely recognizes the gaunt young man staring back blankly at him. It’s definitely not the King of old, nor the new improved Damn Good Babysitter. It’s just a hollowed out boy, lost and floundering. It’s like if he doesn’t have a bat in his hand, if he’s not standing between someone else and danger, he doesn’t know who he is anymore. He’s doing what he can to try and find himself, to court and cultivate the sense of peril that reminds him he’s _real_ , he _exists_. It’s a pale imitation, but he doesn’t know what else he can do, doesn’t know just how far he can fall before he hits the bottom. Lips curling in an angry sneer, Steve slams the tap off and turns his back to the mirror, ready to get the hell out of this dump. 

  


He’s been here enough times to know that the bar has a back door, like all the best ones do, and Steve takes it rather than walking himself out stiffly through the front. He knows that on the rare occasions when he passes through the main room everyone knows exactly where he disappears to, and why. He could do without that particular walk of shame tonight, could do without wondering exactly what type of reputation he’s been earning himself with his rather indiscriminate behaviour. It’s probably unfair to think that any of the patrons here are judging him all that harshly, considering most have either chatted Steve up for themselves, or once upon a time were young men very much like him. Even knowing this, he can’t stop the anxieties that plague him, can’t help but hear the whispers inside his mind that echo what his onlookers must be thinking. It’s like his brain just doesn’t know what to do, how to keep functioning, if he doesn’t feel like his every move is being scrutinized and found somehow lacking. He doesn’t remember a time before that was his constant mindset. Pulling the collar of his jacket tight around his neck, Steve leans heavily against the polished handle of the door and pushes his way out into the chilly night air. His gait is slow and deliberate, but not really in pain, not enough at least. He just sags under a heavy sense of discontent that weighs him down until his heels drag through the dusty gravel that fills the parking lot. He leaves little clouds of grit in his wake, his shoes soon covered in the powdery grey dust. 

  


The little hole-in-the-wall is on the outskirts of a town Steve never bothered to learn the name of, but it’s a bit over two hours out from his home. Even so, he parks his BMW a short distance down the road and around a corner, a tiny dirt path that meanders off somewhere into the great Indiana wilderness. Not that any locals know just how wild it can truly get. To the barflies he just left behind the most exciting thing that might exist out amongst these trees are bears, or maybe a pack of wolves. Unlikely to find any in this area of Indiana, but a tantalizingly scary possibility when the dark has blanketed the woods and the primal fears man has all but forgotten in the modern age suddenly feel all too possible once more. Every noise promises a messy lonely demise, every shadow concealing a grim, unavoidable death. Steve knows these truths all too well, knows the even more terrifying reality that there are things out there that offer death as a kindness compared to what else they can do. Creatures that can melt you down to just your meat and bones and keep you moving, keep you in perpetual agony, reshape and reform you, combine you to suit it’s desires. The air suddenly feels too thick on Steve’s tongue, tastes bitter and wrong. It tastes like the tunnels and he knows it’s only in his head, but it lingers in his memory long after the rest of that fateful evening has dulled and waned in power. He growls at himself to stop being pathetic, to get a grip. He doesn’t need this right now. He tells the thoughts to shut the fuck up and savagely shoves them deeper into his brain, cramming them into the darkness below the level of his consciousness. He reaches his car before he can blink, almost dropping the keys from his hands in surprise. Time has had a way of bending and stretching on him lately, finding himself unable to keep track moment to moment. Usually this disjointed temporal dilation doesn’t work out in his favour, but for once it has and Steve exhales gratefully, glad he can finally just go home. 

  


He settles himself into the driver’s seat gingerly and turns the car on to warm up. It isn’t winter yet, but the cold has seeped into his bones and his joints and lingers like a lover. The radio is blaring a country music station through a nimbus of static and it sounds so much like Steve’s own distorted thoughts that he flinches back from the noise and hastily flicks the knob off with a sharp twist of his wrist. 

  


He’s breathing heavily, and he doesn’t know why. He can’t place the source of his anxiety, why he’s unable to get himself moving properly despite having gotten what he came for.

  


His fingers tap without rhythm against the steering wheel and he notices a thin chip of orange paint has lodged itself beneath the gnawed-short nail of his left index finger. It burns against his flesh like a brand, bright and accusing in the dim twilight. He can’t see anything else, vision tunnelling down until all he can focus on is the tiny, accusing sliver of paint. He remembers the way he scratched uselessly at the metal wall, the unyielding press of the stranger behind him, and the ragged hitching noises being forced from his throat. He remembers everything, endlessly looping and always coming back to rest on how desperately he clawed at the cubicle, how trapped he felt by his own body, and how sickened he was by his own actions. 

  


Hysterical tears begin to fall helplessly from his eyes, hot and damning. Breathy words tremble on his lips but Steve can’t tell what he’s trying to say, or if he wants to say anything at all. Everything feels meaningless. 

  


He furiously picks at his hand until the paint fleck is gone and then digs his fingers into his scalp. He opens trenches in the thin skin that trickle wetly in time with his tears until they both begin to peter off into the placid void where Steve pushes all his unwanted feelings (but not all these feelings stay where they’re supposed to. These cravings...the warring fear and desire he associates with giving himself to another man. It’s a reward and punishment rolled into one, and if his father ever found out it might just mean his death). The pain left by his nails relieves the ache in his chest slowly as he continues to suffocate his emotions, each tumbling down the dark well of his inner most being. Once they have disappeared with all the rest that have come and gone before, he feels at peace again. He isn’t sure how long it’s been, body motionless as he stares blankly through the front windshield, but it’s full dark by the time he comes back to himself, tired and wrung out. 

  


The pain of the evening has left it’s marks in all the places he needed it most. He can put it all away and go back to being normal. To being fine. Everyone needs him to be fine, and so he is. Until he isn’t anymore. He can always come back when he needs to. It’s not like it’s his first time, or his second. He lost count of himself somewhere in the middle or the muddle, he thinks absently. 

  


His hand is steady as he turns the ignition all the way and his BMW purrs to life. With a final deep breath Steve plasters a smile on his lying lips and begins the long drive home. Half way there he hits a long straight away, miles of empty cornfields like either side, the stalks that remain dried out and bare now that the harvest season is over. His foot rests heavy on the pedal and he casually flicks the radio back on. He can receive the signal from WEZV at this point and cranks the music high. The smile on his face settles into something softer, more genuine. The night is pushed far from his mind as he chases down the dawn, one hand idly tapping the beat of the music into the tattoo over his heart. For right now nothing hurts, and Steve is fine with that. 

  


If only he could say for certain how long this temporary respite from his own insecurities would last. He thought the tattoo would be enough, but it hadn’t taken long for him to need to find something new to remind him he was alive, that he was okay. He couldn’t say how long letting himself be used, put through the scary rush of pleasure and pain, of seeking his degradation from giving himself over and over to strangers would continue to ease his mind. He was something these men wanted, _needed_ and Steve needed the pain they provided him in return. He didn’t want to mentally examine the other side of that coin too closely, how right it felt sometimes, how often the pleasure began to cloud over whatever hurt he felt when he let himself be taken. Some part of Steve that he never let see the light _wanted_ this, wanted these demanding sensations and the freedom of giving up control to someone else, of the calloused and eager hands of another man on his body, calling him beautiful, making him feel wanted in a way he hadn’t quite felt with any of the girls he’d been with. It was just a temporary thing though, just until his brain calmed itself and got back to normal. Just until he no longer needed the pain to remind him he was still alive and still had a use that only he could provide. 

  


Because he was going to come back from this, of course. It had to happen eventually, right? 

  
  
  


_Right?_

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write some Steve struggling with normal life after everything he’s been through, and this just mostly wrote itself. There is a second chapter that I wrote, but it gets pretty heavy and I’m not sure people would want to read that? I think there might be more past that, but nothing I’ve committed to words yet. Something on a more upward trajectory for Steve, but considering I wrote this just because I like Steve angst, I’m not sure I trust myself to make things better in the end. I’d love any feedback you have, and thanks for reading!


End file.
